And Then There Were Four
by RexDragosaurus
Summary: When a baby turns up on Sherlock's doorstep, he decides to take it in and, with some help from John and Mrs Hudson, look after it while he tries to work out where it came from. Sort of Parent!lock, but not Johnlock. More fluff than mystery. Written pre-season 3.
1. A Client

**A/N: **Hi, all. This is a little bit of comedy-fluff I wrote late last year after hearing about the Parent!lock trend and thinking it'd be fun to give that a go. It's not really set in any particular point during the series and is more slice-of-life than mystery, but I hope you enjoy it.

* * *

**And Then There Were Four**

**Chapter One: A Client**

_WHUMP. THUD. CRASH!_

It was a little after one in the morning, and Sherlock was bored. John wasn't home, as he'd decided to spend the night at his sister's after the latter had been caught up in a particularly nasty incident at a pub, which involved two meat cleavers and a chicken. Mrs Hudson wasn't in either; she had gone out to a club with some gentleman or other and not returned yet. (This would have surprised John, but not Sherlock.) So Sherlock was left on his own.

Ordinarily he would perhaps have liked it that way, but being alone is a terribly inconvenient thing when you're bored and the gun is sitting in a drawer all the way across the room and there is no one to fetch it for you while you lie dormant on the sofa. So instead of his customary shooting, Sherlock was reaching out behind him to the coffee table that was sitting beside the armrest which currently supported his head, removing miscellaneous objects from said table and hurling them at the wall. The effect, though pleasing, was not quite the same, and eventually he gave it up.

He considered going to sleep, but sleeping was boring, and anyway, he wasn't tired.

Then the doorbell rang.

He stiffened slightly. "Mrs Huds—!" No, wait, she wasn't there. He let out a soft hiss of frustration, then listened for a moment. It didn't ring again. He heaved himself to his feet and stalked over to the window, his dressing-gown hanging off one shoulder. No one appeared to be walking away from 221B, which meant...they were still there.

Sherlock considered the facts. Whoever it was had only rung once, so whatever they wanted probably wasn't urgent. But on the other hand, they were obviously _reasonably _keen to come in, as they hadn't gone away yet. This intrigued him a bit, so he padded slowly downstairs and opened the door with a certain level of caution—after all, curiosity or no curiosity, the action did come with some risks.

He peered out, and there wasn't anyone there. No one walking up or down the pavement on either side of the road, even. That was strange.

Then there came a very small noise, and he looked down.

"What..."

It was a baby. Well, not really a baby, for it was at least two years old, but still... It was a baby: a blonde little boy with wide eyes, sitting there on the doorstep and staring up at him with an unsettling level of placidity.

Sherlock frowned. This didn't make sense. If someone had dropped the child off, he would have seen them departing. But at the same time, it didn't seem likely that a boy of that age should have escaped from wherever it was he'd come from at such an hour and toddled all the way up here by himself. And why _this _house? And who had rung the bell? It just didn't add up, and Sherlock hated things that didn't add up. So there was only one thing to be done, of course: he would have to treat the baby as a client, work out where he'd come from and how he'd got there and why.

Sherlock stepped to one side and nodded at the entryway. "Go in, then."

The baby smiled at him, then tottered in through the door. "Stairs," he said, pointing.

Sherlock, taken by surprise, could only nod. "They are," he agreed after a moment. "And do you know what stairs are for?" The baby just stared at him, so he went on, "Stairs are for climbing. So I suggest you climb them quickly."

"Stairs," the baby said again, beaming.

"Stairs," Sherlock answered, somewhat impatiently. "Go on, go up the stairs. Look." He strode over and began to ascend the staircase. To his relief, the baby followed after a minute's pause. But the stairs were quite big and his legs were very short, so it took a great deal of time and effort just for him to catch up to the now-stationary Sherlock, who heaved a sigh. "This is getting ridiculous," he told the baby. He lowered one slender hand towards the child's. "Hold on, and try to keep steady."

The baby cheerfully slipped his chubby pink fingers inside Sherlock's long, pale ones, and together they reached the top at a reasonable speed. Once inside 221B, Sherlock immediately let go of the baby's hand and pointed towards one of the chairs. "Sit there for a minute while I think."

But the baby just toddled off in the other direction. Sherlock scowled to himself. This was the trouble with babies—or one of the troubles, anyway. He followed at a measured pace, trying to read the child as he went. There wasn't a lot to make a deduction from; the baby's clothes—polo-neck, jacket, dungarees and woolly hat, all blue—were clean, warm, and in good condition, so someone had evidently been looking after him. But because they were so clean, there weren't any traces of other materials on them which he could use to further his hypotheses. The baby had blonde hair and pale blue-grey eyes—common enough—and no particularly distinctive features, although there might be a birthmark somewhere on his body. A DNA test was possible, though it would be useless if there wasn't another sample to compare the baby's with...

Sherlock sighed and turned towards the mantelpiece. "What am I supposed to make of the data?" he demanded of his skull. "Did the child just—materialise out of nowhere?" The skull said nothing. "True," muttered Sherlock. "There's still the doorbell to think about. _Someone _must have rung it, but that baby is far too short, and..." He trailed off, realising he could no longer see the baby. "BABY?" he called, feeling an unexpected surge of concern.

After a tense moment, during which he turned very quickly on the spot and shot wild glances in all directions, a little voice answered him from the kitchen: "Hand." Sherlock relaxed slightly, then took several long strides into the kitchen and found the baby sitting and smiling on the floor, a severed hand in his lap. "Hand," he repeated, looking very pleased with himself.

"Put that back in the fridge." snapped Sherlock. "If it reaches room temperature, my experiment will be ruined." The baby obviously didn't comprehend, because he just grabbed the disembodied article and started to put it into his mouth. Sherlock hastily whisked it away from him and returned it to the fridge himself.

The baby was unperturbed by Sherlock's reaction, and grinned at him for a minute. Sherlock contemplated the baby for a long while. It took him all of ninety seconds to realise that he had sunk to meet the boy's eye level and was now crouched down in an absurd, catlike position. But he did not, from this vantage point, glean any more information than he had previously, and a moment later he straightened up. The baby did the same, looking expectantly up at him. "Man," he said, his little brow furrowing as he pointed at Sherlock.

"Yes." Sherlock put on his sternest expression. "Now go and sit on that chair there." The baby made no move to follow this instruction, so Sherlock decided to take matters quite literally into his own hands. "Fine," he said severely, "then I'm going to have to carry you, so _don't _cry."

Sherlock inched toward the baby, arms outstretched just a fraction, then, encountering no resistance, grasped him gingerly around the waist and lifted him up. He was heavier than he looked, and Sherlock shifted his grip so that the baby was resting against his shoulder. "Up," said the baby, laughing.

"Are you going to state the obvious all night?" Sherlock enquired in a gruff tone, making his way to the sofa and setting the baby down on it. The baby did not reply, so Sherlock turned his mind to other matters—and it was then that he remembered something important. The child's _clothes _were clean, but the soles of the little leather boots he was wearing were not. And Sherlock had done this sort of thing before. "That's it..." he murmured, kneeling down by the foot of the sofa and removing one of the baby's boots. "Wait here." He sprang to his feet and retrieved a plastic bag from the kitchen, into which he placed the boot. Then he fetched his coat and scarf, put them on over his dressing-gown and started towards the door...

And gave a low growl when it struck him that the baby would probably not remain on the sofa for the duration of his absence. And if left alone for too long, he would no doubt destroy all Sherlock's possessions. Sherlock turned slowly back towards the sofa, frowning. Mrs Hudson and John were out. Anyone else he might conceivably consult would be asleep, and he wasn't about to put his errand off if it would rid him of the child sooner. So his only option, as he saw it, was to take the boy with him.

"Come on, then." Sherlock said, reaching towards the baby. "We're going back down the stairs."

"Stairs!" answered the baby, clambering down and coming to hold Sherlock's hand again. They went outside into the night and Sherlock called a cab, which the unlikely twosome then took to St Bart's Hospital.


	2. A Distraction

**Chapter Two: A Distraction**

Sherlock, keeping a tight hold on the baby, stretched his free hand out and opened the door to the lab. He'd expected it to be empty, so he was quite surprised when he stepped through and found Molly Hooper inside, sitting at one of the tables and reading a document of some description. "Molly?" said Sherlock. "What are you doing here?"

"Oh," she said, turning in her seat with a startled look on her face, "Sherlock, hi. I was just filling in for a friend, and..." She trailed off for a second, her gaze falling on Sherlock's charge. "Is that a—baby?"

"'Course it is, what else would it be?" Sherlock answered curtly, closing the door behind him. He started to beeline for the nearest microscope, then stopped and said as an afterthought, "Actually, Molly, you're a woman, so can you just—mother him for a minute while I check something?" He picked the baby up and handed him to her in an almost brusque fashion.

"Uh..." Molly said awkwardly, trying not to drop her unexpected burden, "who is he? Why's he only got one shoe?"

"I don't know who he is," muttered Sherlock, withdrawing the plastic bag from his coat pocket and tipping the baby's other boot out of it, "but I'm going to try and use this to find out." He said no more for the next ten minutes or so, busying himself with tests and analyses and conclusions. Molly was left to sit down in a seat so as to hold the baby more easily.

The baby started to struggle after a while. "Man," he pleaded, reaching out to Sherlock. "I want man."

"That's Sherlock," said Molly, wrapping her arms firmly around his waist. "He's a bit busy right now."

The baby paused, trying to work his mouth around the unfamiliar word. "Ser-ock."

"Sherlock." said Molly. "Sherlock is busy."

"Ser-ock busy."

"That's right," said Molly, smiling, "so you'll just have to wait here with me until Sherlock stops being busy. Won't that be fun?"

"Molly, there's no need to patronise the baby," Sherlock said sharply, finally looking up from his work. "You should talk to him like a normal person or he'll turn out to be more of an idiot than he would otherwise."

Molly coloured slightly. "Sorry."

"I want Ser-ock." the baby announced in spades.

Sherlock didn't reply, but Molly could tell he'd heard. Presently she asked, "So, er, how's it going there?"

Sherlock turned right around, seeming frustrated. "Not much to work with on the sole of his boot. There's a bit of London mud, but that's about it. He obviously hasn't been around much—at least not in those shoes."

"Well, I suppose that makes sense, given his age," Molly said thoughtfully.

"Huh," said Sherlock, not bothering to point out the seven different logical fallacies her statement brought to mind. "I'll get it soon." He was turning the boot over and over in his hands, but Molly suspected he wasn't actually thinking about it at all. Just then, the baby, evidently tired of being restrained, began to cry. "There, now look what you've done." growled Sherlock, discarding the boot and taking the baby back from her. "I'll never be able to think straight if he wails like that." He held the baby out at arm's length, frowning at him. "Shut up." he said.

It took a moment or two, but the boy eventually subsided. "Ser-ock busy?"

"No." said Sherlock. "Shall I put your other shoe back on?"

The baby smiled, rubbing at one blue eye with one tiny fist. "Shoe on."

"He's using more words than he was when I first met him," Sherlock commented as Molly helped him with the baby's boot.

"Really?" said Molly. "And when was that?"

"About..." Sherlock checked his watch. "An hour ago."

"Friendly chap, then?" said Molly, trying to disguise her bewilderment (and failing miserably, Sherlock decided).

"It would appear that way." said Sherlock, turning to go. "But that still doesn't help me discover where he came from." He was halfway out the door by the time he'd finished the sentence, still carrying the baby carefully in both arms.

"Bye, Sherlock." Molly called after him.

"Mph." he said, already lost in thought. And then he was gone.

* * *

On the way back to Baker Street, Sherlock found himself unwilling to think about what he would do if the child's identity were not discovered. Of course it was early days, and he had absolute confidence in himself...but the possibility was there all the same, even when he pushed it away. What he really needed was a distraction.

"How would you like to stop off at a restaurant?" he asked abruptly, turning to the baby. The latter, who was looking quite droopy-eyed, only gazed vacantly at him. "Are you hungry?" Sherlock tried again. This time the baby nodded. "Alright," said Sherlock. He directed the cabbie to a nearby all-night eatery, and once he'd parked, Sherlock and the baby got out and went inside.

There were only a couple of other patrons within the building—a tall man in a green coat and a young woman with ginger hair and a squint. Sherlock, holding tightly onto the baby's hand, cast an idle glance in their direction, deduced their life stories and then dismissed them as unimportant. He took the baby to a table by the door and they sat down. A waiter came over in his own good time and asked Sherlock what he wanted to order. "Just tea for me," said Sherlock.

The waiter nodded, making a note on his pad. "And your son?"

Sherlock blinked. "He's not my son."

"Oh, er, right." The waiter looked embarrassed. "Sorry."

"Doesn't matter." said Sherlock. "Anyway, he hasn't told me what he wants, so I suggest you ask him yourself."

The waiter, seeming faintly amused, addressed the baby. "What can I get for you, mate?"

The baby clapped his hands. "Stairs," he said pertly.

"That is an illogical demand," Sherlock scolded him. "There're no stairs here." He turned to the waiter. "What do you recommend?"

The waiter shrugged. "Chips?"

"Good enough." said Sherlock. The waiter nodded and hurried away. Sherlock looked at the baby. The baby looked at Sherlock. "You know," said Sherlock, "Molly was right about you. You _are _very friendly. You turn up at my house, enter, and accept my presence as though nights like these are normal for you. Why is that, do you think?"

The baby smiled. "Ser-ock busy."

"_Sher_lock."

"Ser-ock!" laughed the baby.

Sherlock pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead. It was a frustrating conversation to have, but the boy _was _young, and obviously tired. Coming out here might not perhaps have been the best of ideas, but it was done now. He decided to try another tack. "Who brought you to me?" he asked. "Do you know their name?" The baby shook his head in an exaggerated manner. "What about your parents' names, then?" Sherlock went on. "Who's your mother? Or your father?"

"Fah-vah," said the baby, bouncing up and down in his seat.

"Stop that and concentrate for a minute," Sherlock instructed. But the baby disregarded him and continued to fidget until their order arrived. Sherlock drank his tea and watched while the baby ate and played with his food in fairly equal proportions. Fifteen minutes later, he paid the tab and took the baby back outside.

"I'm cold." the infant asserted, hanging onto Sherlock's leg.

"Well," said Sherlock, prising him away, "just let me get us into the cab and then we'll be back at the flat soon." They walked to the taxi, which was waiting for them in the car park, got in and motored off to Baker Street. The baby had fallen asleep by the time they arrived at 221B; Sherlock frowned when he noticed this. If the baby were awake, he could get into all sorts of mischief, so his being asleep was probably a good thing...but on the other hand, getting him out of the vehicle and upstairs would not be easy.

Sherlock considered the problem for a bit as he paid the cabbie, then sighed and resigned himself. He undid the baby's seatbelt and slid one arm behind his back, the other under his legs. Then he lifted the baby awkwardly out of the cab and nudged the door shut with his foot. The cabbie drove off into the night, and Sherlock was left to stagger forward, lean against the door with his knee, propping the baby up with his thigh and one hand while he used the other hand to fish around in his pocket for his key.

Several minutes of shuffling and fiddling and grunting later, Sherlock entered the flat and almost—but not quite—dropped the baby onto the sofa. He stood there and surveyed the child a bit longer, then went to find something to cover him with. There weren't any blankets, so he borrowed one of John's jumpers and spread that over the baby instead. Then, after checking on one or two experiments, he picked up his violin and began to play very softly by the window.

The baby stirred a bit, then rolled over and continued sleeping. Sherlock, without pausing his tune, watched him for a minute—and though he would have denied it had he been asked, he thought he felt the start of a smile tugging at his lips.

* * *

**A/N: **I would just like to point out that I didn't pick tea and chips purely because the story is set in England. The fact is that I find them such intrinsically funny food/drink words (along with beer, doughnuts and biscuits) that I use them all the time no matter where my stories take place. Anyway, hope you liked chapter two!


	3. A Way

**Chapter Three: A Way**

"You _cannot _be serious, Sherlock!"

Morning had arrived, and so had John—who was now staring, aghast, as Sherlock removed a small knife from the clutches of the baby and used it to pin the Cluedo board to the much-abused wall. He studied the effect for a moment, then turned to John. "Of course I'm serious. Look, I'm doing my serious face."

"But—"

"No buts." said Sherlock, climbing over the coffee table and heading towards his room. "Watch John while I get dressed, and if Mrs Hudson gets back in, tell her—"

"Hold on," said John. "Did you just say 'watch _John_'?"

Sherlock stopped, but didn't turn around. "That's his name as of this morning."

"You called him John?"

"Well I could hardly call him _Sherlock_."

John hid a smile. "We can't _both _be called John. Why don't you call him...I dunno, Little John?"

"I'm not naming him after a story-book character."

"Fine, then how about Junior?"

"Demeaning."

"J?"

"Tacky."

"JJ?"

"That's even worse!"

John sighed. "Al_right_, then how about...Jack?"

Sherlock turned once on the spot, mulling this over. Then he relaxed and nodded. "Jack it is." He pointed to the newly-named Jack. "Don't let him near my things. If Mrs Hudson gets in, you can tell her what happened so she doesn't pester me about it." He exited the room.

John watched his friend disappear, then sat down in an armchair and watched as Jack toddled about the room with a surprising speed. It was incredibly fascinating and incredibly boring at the same time, and John still wasn't sure whether to be angry, pleased or bemused at the events which had taken place while he'd been out. Still, he told himself, at least it was only temporary.

"So, um...Jack," he said after a moment, thinking that he and Jack might as well get to know each other a bit, "what are you doing?"

Jack, who'd been crouching on the floor, stood up and held out his hand, something dark lying on his small round palm. On closer inspection it turned out to be a bullet shell. "Wass 'at?"

"Erm, okay, I'd better take that, thanks," said John, who was aware of the propensity young children had for putting small objects in their mouths. He crossed the room and appropriated the shell, putting it up onto the mantelpiece after a moment's deliberation. Jack followed the motion with big, serious eyes, then turned away and began to climb onto the coffee table as Sherlock had done not long before. John hoped fervently that the similarities ended there, because if the adult Sherlock Holmes was as difficult to live with as he was, then who could say how much worse a baby version might be?

"Where's Ser-ock gone?" Jack enquired, as though reading John's thoughts.

"He's getting dressed."

"Ser-ock busy?" Jack went on, walking precariously along the length of the table and grinning like a demon as he did so. He wobbled a bit, and John hastily took hold of his hand to keep him steady.

"Yes," said John, helping him off the table, "I suppose you could say that."

"Oh." Jack appeared to think hard for a minute, then asked, "Wass your name?"

"I'm John." Jack didn't complain as John took him back to the chair and sat him on his knee, deciding it would be safer—and less nerve-wracking—that way. "And who are you, Jack? Who are you, really?"

"Don't know." said Jack, shaking his head.

"Mmm," John agreed, looking thoughtfully at him. "No one does."

"That will soon be altered." said a voice behind them.

Jack's eyes lit up. "Ser-ock!" he cried, pointing. He then scrambled down to the floor and made a beeline for Sherlock, who had just emerged from his bedroom in his usual black suit.

Sherlock, for his part, nodded to Jack and then said to John, "So your sister recovered from last night's escapades."

It wasn't a question, but John answered it anyway. "Yep. Can't say the same for the chicken, though." Sherlock gave a snort of derision, which John ignored. "So what exactly do you plan on doing now?"

"Well," said Sherlock, "I thought I would ask you very nicely to see whether Jack here is toilet-trained, but that fell through when I mentioned my request without actually asking."

"Why me?" John said indignantly.

"He's _your _namesake." Sherlock replied. This was almost definitely the worst explanation Sherlock had ever given—which was really saying something—but John, who knew from experience what an unpleasant thing it was to argue with his flatmate, decided not to do so now, and so sighed and led Jack out of the room. Just then, the door downstairs opened. Sherlock, recognising this particular door-opening sound, called out in a sharp tone, "Mrs Hudson, _what _took you so long?"

There came a pause, then the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs, punctuated by groans at irregular intervals. Mrs Hudson appeared soon afterwards, giving a final groan as she stepped over the threshold, clutching at her head. "Oh dear," she sighed, "that's almost as bad as my hip..." She caught sight of Sherlock. "You boys won't _believe _what happened to me last night—"

"He turned out to be a disappointment and you were so upset you got drunk," said Sherlock, giving her a once-over, "and you ended up staying the night in a two-star B&B. Fascinating. You should write a book about it."

"Don't you start, young man," snapped Mrs Hudson, "not with my head splitting the way it is."

Sherlock just smiled. "Can't be that bad if you came up to chat, can it?"

At this point, John's voice came floating towards them from the hall. "Sherlock, it would appear that Jack is _not _toilet-trained."

"And on that note," Sherlock continued to Mrs Hudson, "perhaps you'd like to pop out and buy us whatever materials you think a two-year-old requires in that department. Some clothes would be good too. I'll pay you back."

"What—?"

"No time to explain." He ushered her out the door, then went to investigate the situation in the loo.

* * *

In spite of its rocky beginning, the day went by without any great incidents. John wrote blogs, Sherlock fiddled around with a couple of minor cases, Mrs Hudson pottered about and occasionally cleaned things, and all of them took turns keeping an eye on Jack, who mostly spent his time getting into things, climbing onto things, talking about things and eating things.

Jack's behaviour was interesting, thought Sherlock. He didn't seem to be pining for any sort of parent or guardian, nor showing any sign that the change in location and possibly lifestyle bothered him at all. He accepted John and Mrs Hudson as readily as he'd accepted Sherlock, and was generally very cheerful and docile for a person his age.

Evening approached, John and Jack had their dinners at various points (Sherlock just sort of lurked in the background, although John suspected at one point that he was eating biscuits behind the pantry door), and then the next few hours were idled away on such mundane activities as watching telly and web-surfing. Neither John nor Sherlock really cared at what point Jack went to sleep, so they didn't try to force him into bed when he didn't want to go and consequently did not have to deal with any tantrums on his part.

Mrs Hudson came up at one point to say goodnight, looking a lot better than she had done that morning, and after hugging everybody, asked, "What will you be doing with little Jack tomorrow, Sherlock? You know he can't rattle about this place forever."

"'Course not," said Sherlock. "That would be absurdly inconvenient—but don't worry, I'll think of something."

"Right you are, dear." She ruffled Jack's short blonde hair and then left the three of them to their own devices.

"She did have a point, you know," John said after a pause.

"Yes," said Sherlock, in a tone which implied he had no wish to discuss the topic further. He watched as Jack came over and put a hand out to touch his knee.

"Ser-ock..." Jack said pensively.

"What is it?"

"Ser-ock...I want up."

Sherlock frowned for a moment, then comprehended and asked, "Why? How will that benefit you?"

"I want up," Jack repeated.

"Go on, then," John chuckled, still a bit disbelieving of the idea that anyone could be as affectionate towards Sherlock as Jack was. "You heard the child, you unfeeling git. Pick him up."

The detective shot John a dark look, then took Jack into his arms. "There. Happy?" He was rewarded with a smile—followed by a yawn. "Well," added Sherlock, "even John could figure _that_ puzzle out. You're ready to crash." He started to deposit Jack onto the sofa, but Jack refused to let go of him, so instead he sat down and resigned himself to waiting until the boy fell asleep. He hoped it wouldn't be long. "Turn the volume down, would you, John?"

John picked up the remote and did as he was asked, then said, "I have to hand it to you, you know; for a high-functioning sociopath, you do have a way with that kid."

"Shut up." Sherlock muttered.

John grinned to himself and then went into his room to get ready for bed.

* * *

**A/N: **And so the baby finally gets himself a name and we actually have our four. In case it wasn't completely obvious, the thing about toilet training wasn't meant to be humorous; it's just that the issue couldn't be avoided forever. Anyway, thanks for all your enthusiastic responses, they really do mean a lot. This story will be seven chapters in total, so I hope you'll see it through to the end and enjoy it as much as you have thus far!


	4. A Look

**Chapter Four: A Look**

"What do you mean, 'daycare'?" Sherlock demanded over breakfast the following morning.

"Exactly what I said." John replied with infinite majesty and calm, though the effect was spoiled slightly by the fact that he was speaking through a mouthful of scrambled eggs. "If we put Jack into daycare, then that'll mean he's safe and sound while we get on with finding out who's behind this whole bizarre situation."

"But there's no need for that." Sherlock protested. "Even if we both had to go out and leave him behind, Mrs Hudson could—"

"Oh, come off it, Sherlock, _that's _not fair." John stated, cutting a piece of toast in half in a very decisive manner. "Mrs Hudson shouldn't have to run around after an energetic little kid at _her _age. You should know that."

"Huh." said Sherlock, folding his arms. "I still don't like it. And anyway, it'll cost—"

"So when we find out who Jack belongs to, we can bill them." said John. "It'd be better than them suing us because their child fell victim to one of the twenty-seven ways to kill or seriously maim yourself in this flat, wouldn't it?"

"S'pose." muttered Sherlock, scowling at the wall, which was no longer being adorned by the Cluedo board because Mrs Hudson had made him take the knife out.

"Ser-ock not happy." Jack volunteered, looking up from his own breakfast.

John laughed. "That's about the size of it." He glanced at Sherlock and gestured airily with his knife. "What've you got against daycare centres anyway?"

Sherlock rolled a terrible eye in John's direction. "Where do I start?"

* * *

In spite of Sherlock's tirade of hatred, John eventually talked him into at least taking Jack down to one of the local places and having a look. So accordingly, the three of them set off towards the end of the morning and, one taxi ride later, walked up to the entrance of the "Happy Family Childcare Institute".

Sherlock glanced darkly at the sign out the front, which was painted in bright, garish colours. "Hold onto Jack for a minute." he said to John, who obligingly took Jack's hand (albeit in some state of puzzlement). Sherlock, now with both his own hands free, turned up his coat collar. "Okay, give him back." John smothered a laugh and allowed Sherlock to regain custody of the baby.

They entered the building, which was just as gaudy and colourful as the sign, if not more. A multitude of small children ran about the place, shrieking and laughing, and a significantly smaller number of grown-ups, mostly women on the younger end of the middle-aged spectrum, supervised the proceedings with an air of harrowed serenity. "Well," John whispered to Sherlock, "this looks alright, doesn't it?"

"If 'alright' is synonymous with 'hateful', then yes it does." Sherlock rejoined.

One of the women came over at that point, and as John smiled politely, Sherlock put on his fiercest glare. "Hullo, and welcome to the Happy Family Childcare Institute," the woman beamed, not seeming affected in the least by Sherlock's hostility. "Were you boys looking to enrol your little one, there?"

"Um..." said John, as Sherlock gave a low hiss and pulled Jack fractionally closer to him.

"Sky, Ser-ock!" yelled Jack, pointing at the roof, which was indeed painted sky blue and even had a little yellow sun in one corner.

"Splendid," the woman went on before anyone could actually answer her question. "I think you'll be very happy with us—we're a highly recommended organisation, you know—and you'll find that leaving the dear little fellow with us will give you a bit more time together to...catch up."

She beamed, and John darted a look at Sherlock. "Uh, no, we're not—"

"Shall I show you around the place?" she continued, about-facing and setting off at a brisk trot, her high-heels clacking on the polished pink floor. John hesitated, then turned to Sherlock, shrugged, then began to follow her.

Sherlock stayed put, glowering at anyone who made eye contact with him. Jack stood patiently by Sherlock's side for a while, but then became restless and started tugging on his hand. "Come on, Ser-ock."

"I don't want to go anywhere except out the door." Sherlock informed him.

"Out the door!" Jack cheered, giving a little jump of enthusiasm. Sherlock started to smile at that—but stopped when John and the woman returned.

"So," the woman was saying, "if you'd like to follow me to the office, we'll take down your details, and—"

"No." Sherlock cut her off.

She gave him a look of polite incredulity. "I'm sorry?"

"Jack doesn't like it here," Sherlock announced, "and I can't say I blame him." He made a sweeping gesture. "All this sickening colour, that infernal noise, those ridiculous educational posters on the walls, and a load of so-called caregivers who are clearly not as competent as they like to believe—it's a waste of space." He then marched Jack out the door, leaving the woman to gape after him for a moment, then turn a look of indignant horror towards John, who was massaging his temples.

There was an awkward silence, then John muttered, "I am _really _sorry about that, he's just..." He trailed helplessly off, shrugged again, and walked out after Sherlock.

* * *

John did not berate Sherlock for his behaviour at the Happy Family Institute, but when Sherlock received a text from DI Lestrade later that day, requesting his presence at a crime scene, John pounced on the opportunity to say "I told you so".

"There!" he said, his tone a hybrid of smug impatience. "I told you we should've put Jack into care. Now I suppose _I'll_ have to stay here and mind him while you go off and—"

"No," said Sherlock, unruffled by John's blustering. "In spite of your misaligned sympathies, I think I'll let you come along for this one—_if_ you're willing to make sure Anderson doesn't get anywhere near Jack, because the last thing we need is a baby with the IQ of a dead cow."

"Let me get this straight," John said slowly. "You're saying we should bring _Jack _to a _crime scene_."

"Yes."

John cast a worried glance in Jack's direction. "There could be corpses, Sherlock."

"He's already seen, collectively, about seventy-eight percent of a dead body right here in this flat." Sherlock pointed out, texting a reply to Lestrade. "He'll be fine."

John pinched the bridge of his nose. "Alright, alright, but I'm not taking responsibility for any mental problems this could cause him."

"That's the spirit," said Sherlock, and they headed out the door again.

* * *

"Hullo, Freak," Sally said in a bored voice as Sherlock and co. approached the caution tape, "what a surprise, I don't think—" She broke off, looking horrified as she noticed Jack for the first time. "What the—bloody hell have you done?!" John started to tell her it was okay, but she made a dive for her radio and yelled into it, "Sir, you've got to get out here, the freak's gone and nicked a _baby_ from somewhere!"

"What?" Lestrade's voice crackled in reply.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and led John and Jack under the barrier as Sally kept talking hysterically into the radio.

The crime scene itself was a warehouse located near the outskirts of the city. It was fairly nondescript, though on one side of it there could be seen, in faded yellow paint, the name "WADE AND SAUNDERS".

"Wonder what's in there," said John.

"Only one way to find out," said Sherlock. "Well, more than one way—six, to be precise, but only one that makes sense just now." He made his way to the entrance with speed and precision. Jack and John followed at a more leisurely pace. Behind them, Sally gave up trying to convince Lestrade that something was wrong and went back to hovering around the caution tape, shooting dirty looks in Sherlock's direction.

Inside the warehouse, it was dark, more than a little bit dusty, and crowded—mostly with stacks of wooden crates, although there were a few coppers and forensics men milling around as well. Lestrade came over as the threesome entered, and raised an eyebrow. "Okay," he said, pointing to Jack, "explain."

"He's a client." said Sherlock.

One or two randoms nearby started snickering at this, but Lestrade didn't even smile. "Come on, Sherlock, this is extreme even for you."

"Look," snapped Sherlock, "you know full well that if you want my input, you let me work with whomever I please. So either show me the problem or bring Anderson over here so I can destroy the last pathetic remains of his self-esteem."

"I heard that!" Anderson shouted from behind a pile of crates.

Sherlock didn't waste any further comments on the forensic technician, but returned his attention to Lestrade, an expectant look on his face. Lestrade sagged a bit, seeming as though he had a headache. "Alright. This way."

* * *

**A/N: **This was probably one of my favourite chapters to write. I don't have any canonical basis for Sherlock's hating daycare, but, as my good friend whom I call Gordon (even though that isn't her real name) would say, "it seemed appropriate".


	5. A Short Distance

**Chapter Five: A Short Distance**

Two bodies had been crammed into one of the crates. This crate was now lying open on its side, surrounded by a few splinters of wood. But there was no blood to be seen, and only a small amount of bruising on the corpses.

"It should've contained paint." Lestrade explained to Sherlock, who was already examining the bodies. "That's what Wade and Saunders manufacture—but when it arrived, one of the forklifts managed to drop it and the men on duty could tell by the thudding inside that something was wrong, so they opened it up, and, well..." He gestured in the crate's general direction.

"Names?" Sherlock asked, not looking up. The dead people were both men, neither particularly old nor young in appearance. Cause of death seemed to be drug overdose—ecstasy, if he wasn't mistaken, and he almost never was.

"William Blake and Ralph Colby," said Lestrade, exhibiting a pair of driver's licenses. "Aged twenty-five and twenty-eight, respectively. That's as much as we know so far. What've you got?"

"It was ecstasy," said Sherlock, standing up. "Probably varying the monotony after a long evening at the comic shop."

"Comic shop?" Lestrade echoed.

"Or games shop." Sherlock amended with a nod. "You can tell the geeky type a mile off, but they don't have the look of the unemployed or the unhappily employed, so chances are that would be the sort of place where they worked."

"Both of them?"

"Yep."

"Ser-ock," Jack piped up, "why those men not moving?"

"Because they're dead." said Sherlock.

Jack evidently did not recognise the word. "Dead?"

"_Sherlock," _John hissed, "he doesn't need to hear this!"

Sherlock was annoyed. "Well he has to grow up someday, doesn't he?"

"He's _two years old!_"

"Er, guys..." Lestrade muttered, "this isn't really the right moment."

"Fine," said John, picking Jack up, "then I'm taking Jack outside." He turned and walked away.

"Have fun with Sally." Sherlock shot after him. He then returned his attention to Lestrade. "The story here isn't remarkable in the least. The corpses were obtained from an a bar or nightclub or something by an opportunist from an unscrupulous rival company and planted in the box to make Wade and Saunders look bad. There are traces of alcohol and dust on their clothes from where their bodies were originally discovered; subsequent wear and bruising indicates they were carried a short distance and then put into a car boot. Altogether a ludicrous and unoriginal plan, poor execution and very little effect. I'm surprised you had to waste my time with it."

Lestrade took a deep breath. "Okay, well, thanks for your help anyway." He glanced at the warehouse door. "So are you going to tell me any more about this new client of yours?"

"Not as such," said Sherlock, "but I _am _going to ask you to look through missing persons and see if you can find a match for him. And you might want to run this through the system as well." He held up a small plastic test tube which contained a drop or so of a thick, clear substance. "DNA sample."

"Right..." Lestrade took the tube and put it in his pocket. "Well, you know, good luck with...everything." He went off to talk to one of his officers. Sherlock watched him for a minute, then wandered outside.

John and Jack were standing just outside the police line, talking in low voices. Now and then, John would chuckle at something Jack said. Sally lurked nearby, eyeing them but not joining in their conversation. She confronted Sherlock, however, as he walked past her. "I dunno what you think you're doing with a kid, Freak, but it's inhumane. I should report you."

Sherlock just smirked at her. "And you think that would bother me."

"I—"

"Have a nice day. Oh, wait, you have a dental appointment..." He swept off in John's direction, leaving her to scowl after him and stomp away. "John," said Sherlock, continuing towards his friend, "we're finished here."

"Good," said John. "Let's head back, then." He and Sherlock each took one of Jack's hands, and they went to look for a cab. "So, what happened with those two blokes?" John went on, curiosity winning out against his lingering disapproval of Sherlock's actions.

"Hmm?" said Sherlock, who had been drifting towards his mind palace. "Oh. Left there by a rival who wanted to discredit the company. Completely idiotic thing to do, but people tend to be like that. Nothing special."

"Dead," said Jack, pulling at them like he wanted to go faster.

"That's right." said Sherlock, not changing his pace. "Dead."

John sighed.

* * *

They got back to Baker Street around half six, and John left Sherlock to look after Jack, sitting down at the table with his laptop and a cup of tea. Sherlock took a seat on the back of his armchair and watched for a while as Jack picked up a discarded ID badge (one of Lestrade's) and began to play with it.

Though his eyes were on the baby, however, his mind was perhaps only twenty percent so. (His mind being what it was, this did not of course constitute much of a problem.) The other eighty percent was mostly exploring the options that were available with him while he waited for the police to get back to him about his enquiries—which, knowing them, would probably take longer than the task really afforded.

As Sherlock thought things over (and Jack started to eye the harpoon in the corner), the best route to take next became speedily obvious: CCTV. Any cameras in the area might perhaps have recorded footage of the person(s) who had dropped Jack off, and if so, Sherlock knew someone who would doubtless have access to that footage. Asking that someone was a bit of a galling task to undertake, but perhaps necessary all the same...

Sherlock rose suddenly and directed Jack away from the harpoon, to which the latter had slowly been creeping. Jack didn't seem to mind this, and presently looked up at the mantelpiece. "Wass 'at?"

Sherlock looked at the object he was pointing to. "That's a skull."

"I hold it?"

An unusual sort of request, thought Sherlock. But then, Jack was hardly at a logical age. "Alright, but be careful; it would be an absolute pain to replace." He picked up the skull and handed it to Jack in one swift, deliberate motion. Then he pulled his mobile out of his pocket and began typing a text message to send to his brother.

Mrs Hudson came in at that point, knocking on the opened door as she crossed the threshold. "Oo-oo!" she said. "How'd it go?" She patted Jack on the head, then clucked when she saw the skull in his hands and muttered something about confiscating it again.

"How d'you mean?" John asked, looking up from his screen. "Were you asking about the visit to the daycare or the crime scene? Actually, neither of them were particularly positive experiences in my opinion..."

"Shame," Mrs Hudson said sympathetically. "What did you think, Sherlock?"

"Waste of time," said Sherlock, pressing the 'send' button.

"And you're no further along with working out what to do about this little chap?" she went on, as Jack placed the skull onto a chair and came over to give her a hug.

Sherlock took the opportunity to replace the skull on the mantel, buffing it absently on his sleeve before he did so. "Not yet," said he. "Only because we're now waiting on the progress of—other people." It was clear from his tone that "other" basically meant "lesser" in this case.

"Well," said John, "at least his stay here hasn't killed him yet."

"Yes, congratulations." said Sherlock.

"On what?"

"On making the most pointless comment of the day. Now maybe you'd like to help Mrs Hudson with dinner or something marginally useful like that." Sherlock retrieved his violin from the cupboard in which he had hidden it to keep it safe from Jack's investigations and began to play.

"Is it just me," John asked of Mrs Hudson in a low voice, "or is something bothering him?"

Mrs Hudson looked at the tall(ish), impassive figure by the window for a moment, then exhaled slowly. "Maybe. I don't know. It's impossible to tell with him."


	6. A House

**Chapter Six: A House**

Sherlock awoke. It was light outside, and something wasn't right. He blinked, sat up, and looked down. Jack was curled up in the bed beside him, still asleep. This startled him at first. What had happened? But then he remembered a little voice whispering to him in the middle of the night: "Ser-ock, I don't like the dark."

That was all he knew for certain, but the rest was obvious enough. He'd been half asleep when Jack had come in, and he'd evidently muttered something to the effect that the little boy could sit with him for a bit...and then they'd both nodded off. Sherlock wasn't entirely certain what he thought of that.

He climbed out of bed, donned his dressing-gown and went to put the kettle on. Jack remained behind, and John didn't emerge from his room either. It was a pretty quiet morning—as quiet as could be in the city, anyway. Sherlock liked quiet mornings; they were good for thinking about things.

* * *

"No new cases turned up?" John queried over the newspaper he was reading. He sometimes thought it was strange that people continued to read actual newspapers in this day and age. But the online news sites just weren't the same, somehow.

"No." Sherlock answered. He was sitting on the kitchen bench and scrutinising a can of beans for no apparent reason. It made a nice change from destroying the wall, though, thought John. "Nothing happening but boring, boring and more boring."

"Yesterday's case too mundane for you?"

Sherlock snorted. "Please. It wasn't even a murder." He tossed the beans aside, leapt down from the bench and began to pace in a slow circle, muttering scientific nothings under his breath. John eyed him for a minute, then folded his paper and stood up. Sherlock became very irritating when he ran out of things to do.

"I think," said John, "I'm going to go out for a walk."

Sherlock, who was perfectly aware that his restlessness got on John's nerves, didn't bat an eyelid. "Take Jack with you?"

John paused, but not for very long. "Okay." He looked around. "Er, where is he?"

Sherlock stopped pacing. "Don't know." They found him, moments later, in the middle of what had once been Sherlock's sock index. Sherlock emitted a growl of frustration, picking him up and holding him so that they were face to face. "Jack, just how big an idiot _are _you?" he demanded.

"Ffok!" said Jack, who had a long grey sock in his mouth.

Sherlock handed him over to John. "You'd better get him out of here so I can reorganise this mess." He took hold of the sock Jack had and gave it a tug. Jack refused to let go. "Give it to me." Sherlock said curtly. Jack grinned at him through a mouthful of cotton and shook his head. Sherlock pulled harder. It came free, and Jack started laughing.

"Ser-ock idiot!" he said, clapping his hands.

"Oh good, now you've taught him how to insult people." John remarked.

Sherlock wasn't listening. "I'm not an idiot," he said, tossing the sock aside. "_You _are."

"Ser-ock idiot." Jack said again, beaming.

John rolled his eyes. "Sherlock," he cut in before his addressee could utter another retort, "you're arguing with a two-year-old child. And losing. Can't you see how ridiculous you look?"

"Hmph." said Sherlock, getting down on the floor and starting to collect his socks. "Just—go off on your walk. Don't come back until that baby is ready to behave properly." John snorted and left the room, Jack peeping over his shoulder at Sherlock and continuing to smile broadly.

"Bye, Ser-ock!"

Sherlock, still busy with his socks, didn't reply. "I was not _losing_." he mumbled to himself.

* * *

John and Jack strolled along the pavement at a leisurely pace. It wasn't particularly warm, but the sun was out at any rate, and the traffic was pretty good for that time of day. Consequently, they were both in reasonably high spirits.

"Cars," said Jack, looking out at the road.

"Cars," John agreed.

"Where they going, John?"

"I dunno."

They passed a line of shops. Sometimes Jack would stop and talk about the merchandise in the windows, and John would listen patiently and give input when it was asked for. It made quite a change from trying to keep up with Sherlock's whirlwind elucidations. John thought that maybe having Jack around wasn't that much of a drawback. (The fact that Jack was not currently demolishing something of John's made it considerably easier to arrive at this conclusion, of course.)

After reaching the corner, they came to a set of traffic lights. "Hold onto my hand," said John, pushing the button on the pole which held the "walk" and "don't walk" signs, "and don't go too fast when we cross the road, okay?"

"Okay," Jack answered, nodding emphatically. "When we go?"

"Now." said John. The two of them walked briskly to the other side. "I think," John continued, "that we should go that way." He pointed left. "What do you think?"

Jack considered. "Yes." A pause, then, "I don't know that way."

"Do you know another way?" John asked, surprised.

Jack cocked his head. "I know...a house."

John looked around. "Can you see it?"

"No." said Jack.

"What's it like?" John pressed.

"Big." said Jack, thinking hard. "Big...and...there's stairs." He smiled suddenly. "I like stairs."

John decided against trying to take the matter further. "So do I." He gave Jack's hand a squeeze. "Shall we go?"

* * *

Sherlock had just finished putting his sock index back together and betaken himself into the lounge again when he received a text from Lestrade. No new crimes to investigate, as luck would have it, but an update on his queries—if a discouraging one. There was no report of a missing child adhering to Jack's description, and no match for his DNA on file anywhere, though that was less surprising. Sherlock resisted the urge to send a somewhat rude message in reply, and put his phone in his pocket.

He wondered briefly what John and Jack were up to, then decided that he didn't care much. His thoughts turned back again to the night Jack had appeared. Someone had to have dropped him off because of the doorbell, and if he hadn't seen them coming or going when he'd looked out the window or opened the door, then they must have been hiding somewhere nearby whilst he'd interacted with Jack—that much had become obvious once he'd gone over the encounter with a clear head. But that still didn't help him with where Jack had actually come from, who had brought him or to what purpose.

Gritting his teeth slightly, Sherlock sat down on the sofa and contemplated the nicotine patch on his arm. Should he apply another? No, there probably wasn't any need of it just yet. He might as well wait until Mycroft got back to him and then decide how trying the situation was. So instead he closed his eyes and began to think about other things.

Life was rather dull at the moment in some ways. Maybe not in others. But what would happen after he found out where to send Jack back to? Would the criminal population rise to the occasion—and his standards—and allow him and John to go off and solve the usual sorts of puzzles again, like nothing had ever changed? Or would his days just become even duller? There was no way of telling.

* * *

By the time John and Jack arrived back at 221B, Sherlock had just got a phone call from a rather amused Mycroft, who did, it turned out, have the footage his brother needed, and sent it to him in an email moments later.

"Got your socks together, then?" John asked, ushering Jack in and closing the door behind them.

"Yes," said Sherlock, gazing intently at his computer screen. He leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowed, then sat up straight. "Look at this, John."

"What is it?"

"Video recording of the man who brought Jack here."

As John looked at the screen over Sherlock's shoulder, Jack wandered off to play with the books that sat on the lowest of the bookshelves. "It's definitely a man, then." said John. It was more of a question than a statement, for the dark figure in the recording was wearing a hoodie.

"Obviously," muttered Sherlock. "Look at the build." The figure actually wasn't all that buff, but John decided just to take Sherlock's word for it.

"Okay," said John. "And does this help us find out where he came from?"

Sherlock glanced at him with some annoyance. "Use your eyes, John—of course it does. Look—he's getting into his car; license plates are visible. And now he's driving off—and Mycroft's been able to track him all the way to..." He paused, fixated on the screen again. Then he looked up. "Mr Tibbs' Home for Waifs and Strays."

"An adoption centre." said John.

"Yes, one with a distasteful name."

They looked at each other, then at Jack, who was flipping innocently through an old phone directory. "I suppose we should probably go and...see this Mr Tibbs." said John.

Sherlock slowly closed his laptop. Then he nodded, for once lacking a reply.

* * *

**A/N:** Oooooh, the plot thickens! Heh, I was looking back at that comment about Sherlock being irritating when he has nothing to do and thinking "That has got to be the biggest understatement I have ever written." Roflcopter. Anyway, stay tuned for the final chapter, guys!


	7. A Brief Muddle

**Chapter Seven: A Brief Muddle**

Mr Tibbs' Home for Waifs and Strays was not at all as archaic a place as it sounded, and Mr Tibbs himself was comparatively young—maybe in his thirties—and looked modern enough, though his manner of speech belied this somewhat. It was a very strange incongruity, and one that Sherlock suspected had come about quite deliberately.

"So," the worthy Tibbs said with a smile, once Sherlock and company had entered his office, "what can I do for you chaps?"

"You can tell me," Sherlock answered, "whether or not you recognise this little boy." He picked Jack up and sat him on Tibbs' desk, pushing a few stray documents out of place.

Tibbs did not appear bothered by this intrusion. He looked Jack up and down, then said, "Oh...yes, I believe I may have seen him around here once or twice."

"Did you leave him at my front door three nights ago?"

"Door," said Jack, unconcerned as ever.

"Indeed I did not." Tibbs said to Sherlock, a hint of indignation written on his face. "And I'm afraid I cannot tell you who did, as I lack that knowledge myself—but I _can _tell you that this little, er—" He turned his head to his computer screen, typed in a query, then went on. "—Ashton White was adopted on that day. Bit of a lucky break, that. He'd only been here a few months; most of my youngsters tend to stay with me for a number of years—"

"Who adopted—Ashton?" Sherlock interrupted, wrinkling his nose slightly as he forced himself to use what apparently was Jack's real name. He did not, needless to say, like it very much. Not that that really mattered any more...

Tibbs shot another glance at the screen. "It was a gentleman by the name of Adrian Winters."

Sherlock paused, running the name through his mind for a moment. It didn't ring any bells, but then, it didn't have to. Beside him, John seemed as nonplussed as he himself would have been were he an ordinary person. "Have you got his address?"

* * *

A short while after leaving Tibbs' company, the three of them walked up to the front door of an unspectacular block of flats. Mr Winters, it seemed, lived on the bottom floor, so John rang the bell, and then they waited tensely until the door opened and a man was revealed standing behind it. He did not seem at all surprised to see them.

"Ha." he said.

"Right." he said.

"Come in." he said.

Sherlock and John exchanged a glance. Then they went inside, bringing Jack along with them.

"Man!" said Jack, tearing free of Sherlock's grip and running to grab hold of their host's leg. Sherlock, though ninety-nine percent sure that said host was Mr Winters, noticed that Jack—Ashton, he reminded himself—did not refer to the man by any particular name. He was unable to prevent a little bubble of satisfaction from rising within him, pushing away a slight pang of betrayal.

"Hullo, Ash." the man said with a smile, leading them into a small, grey-carpeted lounge room. He invited them to sit down; John and Ash did so, but Sherlock preferred to remain standing.

Sherlock did not waste time with formal introductions. "You must know why we're here, Mr Winters—if indeed you are Mr Winters—so tell us, what has all this been about?"

The man nodded. "I am Adrian Winters, yes, and I did leave young Ashton outside your door that night, Mr Holmes, but honestly, it hasn't been about anything that I know of." Seeing the look on their faces, he went on. "See, I only adopted Ash on a probationary basis—I was to take him back at the end of the week if it didn't work out, and I have every intention of doing so, because it was never actually my wish to adopt him in the first place."

"You are doing a terrible job of making things clear, Mr Winters." Sherlock said with an unusual amount (for him) of tact.

Winters sighed. "Yes, I have a propensity for that. I apologise. The thing is, I took Ash from Mr Tibbs' Home and left him with you—temporarily, you understand—solely as a favour for a friend, well, colleague of mine, who failed to tell me what exactly the purpose of the exercise was."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "What colleague?"

"You mean you haven't guessed already?" said Winters, finally seeming perplexed. "I'd have thought he'd have mentioned my name to you at least—"

"_What _colleague?" Sherlock snapped.

Winters opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. "Your brother, Mycroft."

* * *

Sherlock furiously dialled Mycroft's number as they rode home in another cab. John did his best to ignore the agitated conversation that followed—well, agitated on Sherlock's part, anyway. Mycroft sounded over the phone as though he was quite close to laughing. It wasn't easy to block out the noise, though, partly because John was curious and partly because Sherlock was speaking at a rather louder volume than normal.

"...Mycroft, what the _hell _do you mean by sending me a baby and..." "...why didn't you tell me when I texted you about..." "...don't like pointless cases that lead..." "...you were _bored?! _Why didn't you just find a wall to..."

"Ser-ock not happy." said Ash, looking up at John with a confidential air.

"No, he isn't." said John. "Never mind. What's that out there?"

"Cars," said Ash, straining to see out the window.

"Yep, and what else?"

While John and Ash were talking, Sherlock continued to rant at Mycroft, who had apparently started the whole business as a means of entertaining himself. "You're an idiot, Mycroft, and I don't care what you say, this charade _wasn't _funny, it was—" He broke off for a minute. "...Mr Tibbs won't mind if I take him back to the centre. Well, this isn't about Mr Tibbs, this is about Jack."

He cast a glance over at Jack—not Ashton, as far as he was concerned—and his brow furrowed for a moment as he considered what Winters and Mycroft had said. Just a joke, just a temporary set-up, just a brief muddle of the _status quo_, and then Jack would go back to the adoption centre.

"_...most of my youngsters tend to stay with me for a number of years..."_

Sherlock thought about what he'd seen of Mr Tibbs' Home. It hadn't been unpleasant—certainly nowhere near as bad as the daycare—but it hadn't been all that nice either. Then he looked back over the last few days and all that had happened during that time. Having Jack around had been difficult, strange, chaotic and downright frustrating, and yet...

Jack turned suddenly and caught Sherlock's eye. Then he smiled and said to John, "Ser-ock happy."

Sherlock looked out the window, and the sound of Mycroft still yakking away on the other end came back into focus. He interrupted his older brother, as he was often wont to do. "Actually," he said, "you know what, Mycroft, you can tell Mr Tibbs that Jack won't be coming back after all."

THE END

* * *

**A/N: **Well, guys, what do you think of how that panned out? I was very close to giving this story a sad ending, but it just didn't feel right, so I hope you readers are all happy ending people. Anyway, I'd like to thank you again for all the feedback and support, and for taking the time to read this fanfic. Chances are I will probably write something similar down the track if you want to follow me, but we'll just see what happens; I normally just write fanfics as random side projects here and there. In the meantime, I'll say goodnight, Night Vale. Goodnight...


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